In what universe was that okay, Sherlock?
by pepperxxx
Summary: In which Sherlock nearly gets himself killed and he and Lestrade have a serious conversation about safety. Or paternal!Lestrade spanks Sherlock.


Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade dragged an unwilling Sherlock Holmes through the evening streets of London, lecturing all the way.

"In what universe was that okay, Sherlock!?" He said, as he pulled the detective along by the arm.

"Let me go!"

"That was incredibly dangerous. Couldn't you have at least waited for the police?"

"You would have slowed me down."

"Good! You almost got yourself killed!"

"Keep your hair on, God Lestrade, I'm fine!" He shook off the older mans grip. "Not that way - I'm going to Bart's."

"No, you bloody aren't. Not at this time of night! We're going to your flat, where we're going to have a serious chat about your behaviour today." He relinquished his hold on Sherlock's jacket.

"Go away!" He struggled, trying to break free from Lestrade's grip.

"No, Sherlock. You're coming with me if I have to bloody carry you."

Sherlock attempted to twist away. He made it a few steps before Lestrade caught up with him, pulled both of his arms back and began towing him along that way.

"Lestrade!"

"Shut it Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. Then he had an idea.

He forced himself to become limp, refusing to go willingly. If he couldn't struggle and couldn't run off then Lestrade would have to drag him because he wasn't going. He dropped to the floor in a heap, staring up at the older man defiantly.

Lestrade looked furious. "Stop behaving like a child Sherlock, and get up," he growled.

Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not going with you."

"Yes you are. Up. Now."

The detective didn't move, just sat there on the cold pavement, ignoring Lestrade pointedly.

"So that's how it's gonna be then."

Before Sherlock had a chance to work out what the policeman meant by that, he found himself bodily lifted off the ground. Lestrade gave a grunt, bending down so that Sherlock was swung over his shoulder in a firemans carry.

"Ahhh!" Sherlock yelled in shock, his whole body jolting at every step the older man took. "Put me down you lunatic, put me down!"

Lestrade took no notice of the struggling, complaining Sherlock, just continued striding to Montague Street, only pausing briefly to unlock the door. He dropped Sherlock in a heap at the foot of the stairs and glared down at him.

"Sherlock, are you going to manage the stairs on your own, or do I have to help you there too?" He said sarcastically.

Sherlock glared back, face red. "Yes. Obviously."

"Good. Go to your room."

Sherlock scowled, standing up. "You can't send me to my room! I'm not five."

"Go, now." Lestrade's voice was deep and Sherlock paled a little but drew himself up to his full height like a tomcat fluffing up his tail. "Make me," he hissed, towering over Lestrade purposefully.

...

Lestrade dropped the bundle of spluttering consulting detective on his bed. "You sit here and think about what you just did," he chastised, walking out and shutting the door behind him.

"Fuck off!" Sherlock yelled. He fell back into the pillows, punching one of them with a pout. He was annoyed. Lestrade and his team were stupid - taking them with him to play target practice with a murderer would have been ridiculous anyway. They'd just arrest the criminal and then shout at him for taking risks. It would be horrendously dull.

He sulked. So what if had been a forty percent chance of death; he was fine. Lestrade was fine. Donovan and Anderson were fine. The rest of Lestrade's boring team were fine. The only one who wasn't fine was the criminal and frankly, who cared if the serial murderer was dead anyway?

He realised that thinking these thoughts was probably what Lestrade wanted him to be thinking and started going through Vivaldi on his mental violin.

The door clicked open and he turned his head sharply. "What?" He snapped irritably. "Go away."

"Don't be rude." Lestrade scolded, sitting down on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "Get up," he added calmly.

The younger man did so, if somewhat sulkily. He stood, looking at Lestrade apprehensively. "What?" He said again.

"Come here." Sherlock reluctantly obeyed.

"Lie across my knee. I'm going to spank you."

Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, it wasn't that. He backed away quickly, his face paling. "Sp-spank me?"

"Yep," Lestrade said, patting his thigh.

"No! That's not necessary."

"Your behaviour today was unacceptable and you need to learn a lesson. You almost died and got the man we were trying to catch killed."

I'm sorry."

"I'm glad you're sorry, but this is happening."

"No! I won't let you." He stayed away from Lestrade, taking no chances.

"Either you come here and lie over my lap, or I will come over there and I will make you." Seeing Sherlock's horrified look he added: "Come here now and I'll use my hand. If I have to drag you over, I'll find a wooden spoon instead."

"I'm sorry!"

"You know I'll do it."

Sherlock's cheeks flamed. He knew. Swallowing, he stepped closer to Lestrade, but was unwilling to actually bend down with his backside in range.

Going by Lestrade's posture and measured words Sherlock deduced that the older man had done this before. At least four times. He supposed it shouldn't really be a surprise; judging by characteristics Lestrade was clearly a strong believer in corporal punishment.

Evidently the policeman was tired of waiting for Sherlock to comply though, because he pulled the younger man onto the bed and gently pushed him face down so that he was lying half on Lestrade and half on the bed.

Sherlock flushed as red as his bottom would soon be.

"Sherlock Holmes," the older man began. "You put yourself in danger today. You got the criminal killed and more importantly, you almost got yourself killed. And that's why I'm spanking you, just to make things clear." With that, he tugged Sherlock's trousers and pants to mid thigh, baring his bottom to the room.

Sherlock gave a squawk of alarm, shoving a hand back to try and pull them back up. "Not bare!" He said hurriedly.

Lestrade pushed the young man's hand away. "Yes," he said firmly.

And with that, he brought his hand down to deliver the first punishing blow, the crack echoing throughout the room.

There was total silence, and then Sherlock gasped. It hurt more than he thought it would, the sting barely wearing off before the next smack struck again in the same place as the first. "Ow!"

The third strike brought an embarrassing wriggle and by the sixth Lestrade was pushing down on Sherlock's back to control the instinctive squirming.

"Ah! Stop it, you've made your point!"

The policeman took no notice. He just continued his spanking of Sherlock, bring the flat of his palm down more quickly as the sting in Sherlock's buttocks began rising to a burn.

"Owwww!"

Unrelenting in his smacks, Lestrade said sternly: "You could have been killed today, Sherlock Holmes. And believe it or not, there are people going to miss you if that happens."

Sherlock sniffed. He dropped his torso and head onto the mattress, fisting his hands in the blankets. He tugged on them, trying his best to disconnect from the pain as Lestrade whacked him again and again. He felt like he must be in a state of shock, unable to register what was happening.

And yet it was. Sherlock Holmes was over Lestrade's knee, being spanked like a child.

"I'm sorry!" He said miserably.

"You'll be sorrier by the time I've finished with you." He didn't stop spanking Sherlock. "Leaving the police out was a stupid and unnecessary risk. But what was worse was you then engaged with a serial murderer. You could've been killed, for gods sake!" He paused in his swats. "Do you understand that Sherlock?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, trying not to cry.

"Good." Lestrade resumed the spanking again.

"Ow!" Sherlock cried. He had thought it was over.

"Also, if it wasn't for you, the criminal would have been caught, not killed."

"Why do you care about the criminal?" Sherlock felt tears pricking his eyes.

"We needed to question him! The victim's family wanted to know who killed their loved ones. Sons, brothers, mothers, friends. Now they won't get to know."

"I'm really sorry!"

"I believe you. I'm going to give you five more, and then it's over."

Before Sherlock could begin to protest, Lestrade's hand smacked down, much harder than the others. He gave an indignant howl, feeling tears spill from his eyes. Four more hard spanks arrived in quick succession and then it was over.

Sherlock breathed heavily, making no attempt to move. Lestrade gently rubbed his back. "It's alright, Sherlock," he said softly. "It's all done now."

The younger man sniffed, shuffling around so that his head was in Lestrade's lap and not his smarting backside. Straining his neck back to look at his bum he winced, seeing how red it was. He reached his hand back to pull up his clothes up, making an aggravated noise as the fabric assaulted the sore skin.

"That really hurt," he mumbled, wiping his eyes.

"I'm sure it did."

They lay there for a little while longer before Sherlock pulled away, flopping off his bed and lying on the floor.

Lestrade stood, looking down at him curiously. "Are you planning to get up?"

"Mmmm, no."

"Come on, if you lie there all day you'll end up having back ache, on top of your sore bum."

Sherlock went slightly pink. "Can't we just forget about that?"

Lestrade reached his hand down to help him up. "I hope so, 'cause I don't really want to do that to you again anytime soon."

Sherlock went pinker. He grasped Lestrade's arm and yanked himself up, trying to avoid putting pressure on his arse.

The DI patted Sherlock on the shoulder. "I'll call you when we need you, okay. I doubt you'll be feeling up to it tomorrow though."

Sherlock groaned. Lestrade stepped out of the door and slammed it shut behind him.

It took Sherlock Holmes approximately five seconds to be rid of his trousers and underwear and another ten to be in the bathroom splashing cold water on his arse.


End file.
